Pretend For Me is going to be a WadeWilson/Deadpool x Reader imagine series. The title was originally going to be a title by my friend @bovaria but I decided to put my own twist on it <3
Prompt: based off of the songs Too Late For Lovers-Gin Wigmore + Real Life-The Weeknd Basically the reader and Wade hated each other in high school after they got in a fight and stopped being friends but she is in an emotional crisis and needs someone to bring to her mothers funeral. Warnings: Cuss words. Its deadpool. Angst Theme: College!Fem!Reader x Wade Wilson Word count: 2090
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It wasn’t like you to break down. You barely cried. Ever. If you did it was strange and unlike you. You had to have a good reason to cry. But tonight you did. You got a call that very gingerly explained how your mom had died in a car crash. A week ago. You had been pretty under the radar so the attorny explained hy it took so long to reach you. Sure your mom was Satan, but you still loved and needed her. With your dad gone and your siblings not knowing where you really went for college, you didn’t have anyone to call except for maybe a couple cousins. But they had a life. You didnt want to bother them. The only person you really had left was someone who you hated and who hated you. Well, they didn’t completely hate you, otherwise they would have killed you already. Wade Wilson. After becoming Deadpool, he needed you as a little distraction to one of his enemies and you dont know why you said yes, but he was glad to set you up for death. Well turns out, his enemy, Francis, never killed you. Deadpool killed him first. So now you were stuck with him. You shared an apartment with him and Al, who you enioyed. She was like a second grandmother to you. But of course way more vulgar and had less of a censor.
You were not happy to think about coming home to Wade. Its not that he wasnt funny, or you completely hated his guts, but he wouldnt be a nice help. He would say some crack up, probably a your mom joke. You rolled your eyes at the thought. So now you were here, a refugee in the school library. It was quiet and no one bothered you. Much like Wade would if you came home. You both didnt have the… Best, history. It all started in high school when— The librarian finally had enough of your shit. “Ma'am, can you please go back to your dorm or go home? I need to lock up and I apologize for whatever is making you so sad but the place to cry about it is not here at ten at night.” She said, a tinge of annoyance piercing through her nice façade. You nodded, sniffling and gathering your things. The ride home wasn’t quiet. You turned the volume in the car up so loud you got a few complaints from drivers around you. You didnt care though. How could you? Everything was numb.
Pulling into the drive, you killed the engine and ran up to the apartment, slamming the door when you got inside. Aware some tears were still streaming down your face, you nonchalantly wiped them away. "Finally, I would have thought you died.“ You heard Wade walk into the kitchen behind you. "You wish I were dead.” You forced a laugh, your voice only a little bit shakey. “Did you eat dinner?” You asked, not really caring. Despite your complete loathing for the man you worked with, you needed him alive for protection. "You know that I dont know how to cook shit, sweetcheeks.“ He said sarcastically. You rolled your eyes, turning to the mercernary. He was in his suit, as always around you. Since the accident, you hadnt seen him without his suit on. All he would tell you is he got burned, never pressing the subject more. "Fine, go sit on the couch. Is Al awake?” You asked while pulling out the frozen chimichangas out of the freezer. “Nah, she crashed an hour back. Y'know how old bitches ar—” He began to say, kicking back his feet. "Dont young people ever learn to be quiet?“ A voice shouted from the back room. You chuckled to yourself. "Old bitch.” He muttered to himself and distracted himself with some TV. The silence made you think, which of course you hated. Flashbacks of your mom flooded your mind, allowing a tear to fall freely. Who was one to decide whether or not tradgedy strikes? Definitely not you. Humans should never play God. Your mom would say. You smiled to yourself, wiping a tear away and slipping the food into the oven. You walked past Wade, trying to get by him without him seeing you cry. “Ill be back to get them out.” You said, voice breaking. Damn. “Are you… Crying?” He asked, standing up. You huffed out a breath in annoyance. “No.” You said before slamming your own door. Wade didnt care if you were crying or feeling bad or anything as such. Why would he? The words he had spoken revived some memories which only made your throat get tighter.
“Are you crying?” The voice of your best friend asked. You chuckled at the irony of the moment. The high school bathroom stalls were empty, with the exception of you and Wade Wilson as of the moment. It was probably far past four and everyone had gone home, save the two of you. "No.“ You sniffled from one of the stalls. Outside, Wade glared, running a hand through his hair. He hated it when his best friend cried. When you cried. "Y/N, come on out. What happened?” He asked. "Nothing.“ You pouted, pushing the door open. He frowned a bit at your expression, eyes red from crying. You sniffed from the stuffy nose you now had. "Now, either you were just crying or you have some disease and need to see a doctor asap.” He joked and you smiled through your pain, immediately wincing. "What happened now?“ He asked. "The usual. I got shoved by Brock and Tyler. Melanie and Talia shoved me inside the stall about an hour back.” You sniffed, rolling your eyes. “One day I’m going to kick their asses.” You muttered as Wade pulled you into an embrace. "And I’m sure you will, tiger. Right after I get cancer.“ You shoved his arm, knowing that he meant it would never happen.
The impact of the punching bag on your knuckles snapped you out of your flashback. The cancer comment was supposed to be light hearted. Who knew it would be far from far fetched? You had cleaned up and came home that night, to an empty house of course. Your mom was at work. As always. It was okay though. She still loved you and the only reason she was out was to provide for you.
The playlist you had on repeat blasted as you hit the punching bag over and over. Wade heard every grunt and cry above the music and felt a tinge of guilt. You should go and help her. One part of him battled. You know her. She has said ‘no’ when she means yes a thousand times before. See what’s wrong.
Dont. Why would you? She was a stone cold bitch and could handle herself.
Maybe a kiss would make her feel better, eh?
Don’t listen to them, you should– His inner voices battled themselves but Wade snapped when the oven went off. "Y/N! 'Changas are ready!” He called. In all truth, Wade cared about you. Couldnt place why. You did risk your life for him. But he could never forgive you for the things you once said.
You rolled your eyes, putting the music on pause. You plugged in your earphones, wiping off your ears first seeing as you were already sweaty. Listening to the music, keeping you pumped and distracted, you headed into the kitchen and pulled them out. "Let them cool! I know you heal but these are hot as fuck.“ You warned before making him a plate. Wade made his way to you, a bit of concern making its way into his head when you wouldnt make eye contact with him. You didnt want to, afraid that if you did, you would start crying. Not that you could even see his eyes. So you didnt. He took the plate and sat back down on the couch. You leaned on the counter, watching as the oblivious asshole ate his food, mask only halfway pulled up. The charred craters of his skin were only visible a little and it looked like it hurt. His entire appearance now was a mystery. Before your mind could delve into wondering what could be hiding under the red and black, your phone buzzed quite violently. You picked up, not recognizing the number. "Hello?” You asked, Wade looked to you, mouth full of chimichanga. You hadnt noticed his staring but he was quite confused. He didnt think you knew any other people besides him and Al and your mom. And you never answered the phone like that when it was your mom. Suspiciously, he chewed slower.
On your end, “Y/N! Its Grace. Im sure you heard about the news.” Your cousin spoke softly and your breath hitched. Shakily, you pulled up a chair. Wade could tell immediately something was wrong. After all he knew you better than anyone. "There is going to be a funeral. This weekend.“ She said, understandinf your silence. "Please dont come alone. I want you and some of your friends to meet my new husband!” She said cheerily and it gave you whiplash. "That was quick. When did you get married?“ You asked, at first referring to the funeral, trying to not sound broken. "A month ago. Would have invited you but I know you didnt have anyone to bring. Rude accusation. Which is why I’m inviting you now. That is of course if you have someone to bring.” She said and your eyes shot to Wade who was seemingly not paying attention. Last time you saw Grace and her brother was two years ago. You were an emotional mess and you looked terrible. Since then, you got your game together. That is, except for having a boyfriend. You were not going to be a disappointment. "Oh no,“ You smiled, understanding the weight of your plan. "I have someone.” You grinned. "Great! See you in four days! Sending the invitation to you know.“ Grace said and hung up. "Who was that?” Wade called as your phone alerted you with a text message. The funeraln invitation as promised. “Just my cousin.” You said, feeling so numb, no emotion for the tragedy that struck flowed through. Which was good. You would not let your enemy see you cry. "Come with me to a funeral? Im expected to show with someone but I have no one to show with other than the biggest asshat in the world. A-k-a, you. You only have to pretend to like me for four days and its over.“ You said quickly, Wade nearly spit out his food. "You want me to go to a funeral? Who do you think I am? A Huxtable? Im no family man. Im a dick who kills bigger dicks. I am not someone to attend an event like that, Y/N.” He protested. "Ill pay you.“ You said desperately. "If it’s not in blow jobs, I’m not interested.” He said and finished his food. You crossed your arms. "Wade. Three hundred. A day.“ You negotiated. "What about nights?” He smirked. You glared even more. Even though you couldnt see his face, you were sure he rolled his eyes. "Fine.“ He groaned and you smiled. "We leave in two days. The funeral is in four.” You informed him and walked back to your room. You didnt want to have to do anything with Wade. In fact you were sure the next few days would be hell. But it didnt matter. You took a quick shower before heading to bed. The thing you would be looking forward to is what Wade was dreading. He lay in his bed much like yourself, thinking about how he will have to take off his mask. He was scared you would run away screaming, while you were excited to solve a mystery.
I’ve had this idea in my head for ages, I’ve even written small parts
of it, but at this point I doubt I’ll ever really get it into fic form
so I thought I’d just post my general idea of it here for the fun of it. Here’s how it would look.
is the new kid in school, she doesn’t really try to get to know people
because she’s always moving since she’s an army brat. Flynn is that kid
who always has his nose in a book and has very little social life
outside of school. Jake is a popular jock who is way smarter than he
lets on, who also loves art but his classmates have no idea. Ezekiel is a
trouble maker who’s always pulling pranks and messing with the students
and the teachers. Cassandra is the smart good girl who is head of the
science club. Her and Ezekiel have been friends since they were kids,
she’s kind of his conscience.
And how they all wind up eventually
meeting is Eve saves Flynn from getting hit in the face during a game of
dodge ball and that’s how they start to become friends. Then Ezekiel
pickpockets Eve. He gets away with it the first time but the second time
she catches him. In the midst of interrogating him, Cassie comes to his
defense, but when she learns Ezekiel stole money from Eve, she winds up
scolding him. Then the group winds up learning Jake’s secret and he
eventually becomes friends with them.
And Lamia would be the bad girl who is always messing them, but maybe secretly wants to be part of the group. And Jenkins would be like… their science teacher or something.
Case-centric, but with hints of Reid x Reader This story was inspired by a post @haileekm made, about how there should be a CM episode where Reid should have to solve a case involving people from his school. I hope it’s okay I used your idea as inspiration!
crimefighters! I hope you’ve packed your poker faces, because we’re headed out
to Sin City, aka the birthplace of our very own resident genius.” Garcia
eagerly gestures to him, and Reid averts his gaze to the case file to avoid the
attention. It’s not that he’s unhappy to return home, in fact he’s been meaning
to visit his mother for a while, but something about it always leaves him a
little apprehensive. Too many bad memories in one place. “So,” Garcia
continues, “this is quite a conundrum. In the last two months, four people have
been murdered in Clark County, Nevada, each shot execution style. The victims
are varied in race, gender, and socioeconomic status. Sandra Owens was an
accountant, Lucas Friar a surgeon, Jameson Kolbe an Uber driver, and Ami
Murasaki a local news anchor.”
“What connects the
victims?” asks JJ, frowning at the images on the screen. Reid’s expression
changes for an entirely different reason. Something about those names is far
“I’m glad you asked,”
Garcia says. “Fear not, your tech goddess has done some digging. All four of
our victims were roughly the same age, and – get this – graduated in the same
year from the same high school. Ed W
Clark High School, in Las Vegas.” Which is precisely why those names were
familiar. Not only did the four deceased attend there, but it’s his alma mater
Morgan notices the look
on his face. “Something wrong, Reid?”
He teeters on the edge of
sharing and withholding, not sure whether he wants to rehash his past or not.
Then again, if they’re going to work this case it’s going to come up sooner or
later. Better to tell them himself. “That’s where I went to school. I graduated
with those people, all four of them.” They were in the same grade, though he
was six years younger than his classmates. Around the room, nervous glances are
shot his way. To different extents, his unfortunate high school years are
common knowledge to his coworkers. Little profiling is required to sense he’s
not exactly looking forward to returning to the same place where he was
mercilessly bullied and tormented for four years. What choice does the have
though? It’s a case, and he has a job to do.
It’s a job he intends to do
well, when they land a few hours later. Rossi is accompanying him back to Clark
High to talk to school administrators. Even if the murders occurred elsewhere,
locating student files will be immensely helpful to ascertaining the exact
victimology. Despite his disdain for this pilgrimage back to school, he
couldn’t argue when Hotch pointed out he already had somewhat of a rapport
built there, and knew the place better than any of them could.
The principal’s office is
familiar, the same place where he received awards and commendations, and the
same place where he ended up time after time, Mr. Haverford attempting to
discover just how he managed to obtain a black eye between third and fourth
period or trapped in a PE locker. If there was one thing he learned early in
his academic career, it was to trust no one and rat out no one. Mr. Haverford
is gone now, replaced by a dark-haired woman he recognizes as one of the former
“How can I help you?” she
asks, inviting them to sit. The placard on her desk identifies her as Mrs.
Rossi briefly flashes his
credentials for her. “We’re with the FBI, ma’am. SSA Rossi and Dr. Reid. We’re
investigating a series of murders in the area, and the victims all happened to
be alumni of your school from the Class of 1994. Could we have access to your
student files? It would help us to eliminate any other graduates in our suspect
list.” One of the first rules when it came to interacting with the general
public: never implicate someone they know as a suspect until you know who
you’re looking for. Denial won’t let them believe those around them are capable
of such things.
“Of course,” Mrs. Sanchez
says, looking a little more rattled than before. “Our older files are split
right now though – we’re in the process of cataloguing them into an archive.
I’m not quite sure where the files from ’94 are, but if they’re not in this
office, they’ll definitely be in the library.”
The library. His one
constant haven in high school. Reid happily volunteers to go there, while Rossi
stays behind with the principal. It’s strange, walking through these hallways
now. They seem so much smaller, less imposing. It’s hard to say whether that’s
because his bullies are gone, because he’s grown nearly a foot since them, or
because he carries a revolver now. Or some combination of the three. The library is largely unchanged, though there
are more computers now, and a small section has been added in the back, large
windowpanes that provide great reading light over a few couches.
Someone is sitting at a
desk, face obscured by a stack of papers and books. “Excuse me,” he says
quietly, approaching the desk. “I’m looking for the librarian?”
A young woman pushes the
chair back so she can see him. She can’t be much older than he is, gazing up at
him with uncertainty in her eyes. “Well, you’ve found her. Who are you?”
He’s forgotten that
schools are trained to be wary of strangers, especially of the adult sort. “I’m
with the FBI, and there are some student files I need to take a look at.”
Offering his badge as proof he adds, “My name is Dr. Spencer Reid. Principal
Sanchez said you might have the files from the Class of 1994?”
“Oh wow. You’re Spencer Reid?” She says his name with a
sort of awe that makes him nervous. How does she know him? “You’re kind of
famous around here, you know? All those awards, the youngest person to graduate
from Clark, a full-ride to CalTech… And apparently a member of the FBI. God,
I used to hear my brother talk about you all the time.”
“Your brother?” He didn’t
have many friends in school, nobody who would’ve talked about him.
The librarian nods. “Yup.
I’m Y/F/N Y/L/N. Evan Y/L/N is my older brother. He was in your class.” The
name sends a chill through him, accompanied by a flood of memories. Lunch money
stolen, bruises received, never-ending streams of taunts thrown his way. Evan
Y/L/N is among those he would most like to forget in this world. And if this
person is his sister, she’s most certainly teasing him now.
Immediately he bristles,
his expression steeling. “I have a job to do, so if you could just show me the
files from 1994, I can get back to work.” Confusion crosses her face, but a few
minutes later she’s handing him a cardboard box full of papers and records.
“They’re all here,
Spencer.” The audacity she has, to smile at him as though they’re friends. As
though her brother didn’t make his life a nightmare for four long years.
“Please, call me Dr.
Reid. I’m going to need to take these with me to look over. They’ll be returned
when we close this case.” A bit too roughly, he pulls the box from her grasp
and storms out of the library, his sanctuary stolen.
This is what they know:
one unsub, most likely male, between the ages of 32 and 38, and almost
certainly a member of Reid’s graduating class. He shoots his victims, after
abducting them from public places, blindfolds them (all he can think is really? Again with the blindfolds?), and
cuts an “X” on the back of their hands.
Victimology is up on the
board, files of students have been sorted through, a geographic comfort zone
has been mapped out, and they’ve all agreed to turn in for the night. Reid is
nearly to the station doors, a cup of coffee in hand, when someone else comes
barreling through them. With a shock, he is affronted with the same woman he
earlier parted ways with, her cardigan hanging haphazardly from her shoulders.
“I’m so sorry,” she says,
the apology frantic. “I didn’t mean to run into you. Well, I guess I did, but
not quite so literally. I um, wanted to talk to you, Dr. Reid.”
“I really don’t have time
to talk right now.” He tries to push past her, but she follows him into the dim
“Please, wait! Did I say
something wrong earlier?”
Standing with his hand on
the door of the SUV, he whirls around to face her. “You did, when you
introduced yourself. Really? Evan’s sister? Are you here to pick up where he
left off, huh? Because let me tell you, Y/N,
I’m not some scrawny twelve year-old kid anymore. I’m an armed federal agent,
and I don’t take kindly to being made fun of. So leave me alone.” With that, he
scrambles into the car, slamming the door shut in her face.
It should’ve been that
easy, drive away and be done with it. He had everything planned out, he would
even send someone else to return the box of student files. Nothing was ever
that simple though, and after a night of revisiting some of his worst high
school memories, finding the librarian waiting for him at the police precinct
the next morning isn’t exactly a welcome sight.
“What do you want?” he
seethes, startling her with the acidity in his voice. Even so she stands her
ground, straightening up and meeting his eyes.
“I told you, I want to
talk to you. Doctor.” The title is
thrown at him like an insult, and with the hopes of finally being done with
this stranger, he agrees. They stand outside the station, away from his team.
“I wasn’t trying to make fun of you yesterday. I understand that your
experience with my brother was… less than pleasant. To be quite honest, I
wasn’t even in high school at the time. Evan is seven years older than I am. I
only heard your name in conversation, but I heard it enough to know he was
terribly envious of you. I don’t know what he did that was so awful, but I
assure you, I’m not my brother.
“For god’s sake, I’m a
school librarian! Do you really think I’m going to tease someone for being
intelligent? I was only trying to be polite. If I offended you, it wasn’t my
Intentions mean nothing
now, not after all these years. Time has taught him to trust no one, especially
not the people he shared a high school with. Reid glowers at her, practically
bristling with contempt. “Evan was on the football team, correct?” A hesitant
nod from Y/N, and he remembers that long night on the field, tied naked to the
flagpole. “Then leave. If you come back here, I’ll have you thrown out on the
grounds of harassment.”
She stares at him with an
open mouth, and a flash of something – hurt? – crosses her face, before she
turns on her heel and dashes out of the precinct without another word. It
occurs to him to feel guilty, but he’s
the victim here. Isn’t he? Morgan comes up behind him, eyebrows raised, and
glances towards the door the woman has just run out.
“What was that?” he asks,
the question wavering on the line of curiosity and teasing, as though he isn’t
quite sure whether this is an appropriate time for a joke. It’s a good thing
Derek only wavers, because Reid is sure as hell not in the mood for it.
“Nothing,” Reid retorts,
brushing past his colleague. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
The bluntness is enough
to keep Morgan’s curiosity at bay, leaving him alone with notes and maps and
files. One by one they comb through records, eliminating any classmates who
have passed away or moved. It requires numerous conference calls to Garcia, who
is quickly tiring of tracking down alumni after alumni. Hotch, Rossi, and JJ
take victimology, and when both groups are finished, they have a working
The person they’re
looking for is almost certainly male, white, between the ages of 38 and 41.
Someone who isn’t physically strong, as there was no evidence of beating or
torture. None of the victims had defensive wounds. No, the gunshot to the head
indicates somebody who can’t overpower his victims, someone whose motive is
deeply personal. Probably an outsider, someone who feels gypped out of
recognition or who resents their fellow classmates. At that point, Reid feels
an uncanny similarity between himself and the unsub, but Hotch reminds them
that the man they’re looking for may not have been bullied. They could have
been quite popular in high school, and instead declined since graduating.
Still, he isn’t sure which would be worse: to face his tormenters again, or to
discover that one of his fellow outcasts has taken to killing people.
Of his graduating class,
forty-one of his classmates remained in Las Vegas. Thirty-seven were still
alive. And one of them was out to eliminate the others.
Three days of
investigations yields few results. With another person shot – Faith Cooper, a
nurse whom Reid remembers mostly from his freshman English class – and no new
evidence, they’re getting desperate. It’s JJ who suggests staging some sort of
reunion event to draw out the rest of the potential suspects. While useful,
it’s not without risk, considering that the unsub could choose to attack at
said event. Hotch decides that the potential for a lead outweighs that darker
It’s how he ends up back
at Clark High School, impatiently tapping his foot as he waits in the
administration office. Principal Sanchez is in a meeting right now, and the
secretary at the desk insists he’ll have to wait – even after he makes a show of flashing her his credentials. He’s not
usually impatient, but logic suggests that it’s the environment that makes him
so antsy. Reid hates this place. He just wants to get this over with. The
meeting, the fake reunion, the case itself. The sooner they can leave, the
Like a wish granted, the
door of the principals’ office swings open. Just as the principal steps out,
someone else comes into the office behind him. When they reach the secretary’s
desk, Reid catches a glimpse of them out of the corner of his eye. Enough to
see the woman’s mouth fall open just half an inch, to see her take a quick step
to the side, putting at least a foot or two between them.
Mrs. Sanchez smiles at
both of them. “Sorry to keep you waiting Dr. Reid. Have you come back with the
student records? I’m sure Miss Y/L/N would be happy to take them off your
Y/N regards him with
contempt, daring him to give her anything. “Actually,” he says, “that’s not why
I’m here. Is there somewhere we could talk privately ma’am?”
Mrs. Sanchez frowns.
“Certainly. Just give me a moment. Y/N, is there something you need?”
The librarian crosses her
arms and speaks stiffly. “Only a question about the archives. But it can wait
until you’re done with him.” This
time, even Mrs. Sanchez catches the glare she throws at him. The air between
them sparks with tension, and he pretends not to notice Y/N at all.
Once Reid is safely
behind closed doors with the principal, she raises a thin eyebrow. “Did
something happen when you went to the library?”
“What do you mean?” he
“Well, it’s just that
I’ve worked with Miss Y/L/N for a while. She’s the sweetest person, and I’ve
never seen her treat anyone that way. I thought maybe you two had some sort of
There is history, enough
to fill a textbook, but it belongs to her brother, not Y/N herself. Reid knows
that means he should let it go, give her a chance, but there are some wounds
that burn too brightly to overlook. The grudge he holds still won’t let him
forgive Evan, and it won’t let him treat Y/N with an open mind.
He sits down, ready to
get to work. The sooner they close this, the sooner he can leave. That’s all
that matters. Put the past in the past. “I don’t know her. She must be having a
bad day. I’m sure it will be fine.”
“I’ve been reading the despairing posts by newer librarians and it breaks my heart. Face it, we’re in a Depression regardless of what Washington says. That said, I believe that librarians are born, not made. If you’re born to be a librarian you’ll find a way. I’d suggest getting a day job to pay the bills, then doing some volunteer work to keep your hand in. For example, volunteer at daycare centers to do story hours. They’ll jump at it and gives you practice and RESUME VALUE. Learn Linux and revive an old computer then give it to somebody who needs one. Volunteer to teach a class in internet searching at a junior high. Many schools don’t have librarians right now. All of this has resume value and gives you experience. You can build a resume without having a job if you’re willing to put in the time. Before I had my first librarian job, I catalogued a small private library run by a nun, Sister Maria, for the local children in a poor neighborhood. I had a blast and remember that time with joy.
Library school itself? Ten years out, I think a lot about the taxonomy and policy stuff I didn’t understand back then. It’s taken that long to become relevant to me. I don’t think that the time was wasted, mostly because I took every practical class I could.
Just remember that “Librarianship” is a huge professional classification. It’s not just books, but information itself. As a ‘librarian’ I’ve been an Account Manager for a database company that put a front-end on Dialog, catalogued and done reference for a county law library, worked as a business librarian doing current awareness and competitive intelligence and I currently teach and do reference work for a law school. I used to know somebody who worked as a librarian at Nike. In her library? Shoes, shoe designs, patterns and art.
When looking for jobs, think outside the box. Go do some informational interviews with librarians who work in non-traditional jobs (i.e. Silicon Valley). It’s all information, so it’s all librarian work. The important thing is to do something beyond just sending out resumes.
These days I’m exploring the world of e-books/e-readers (I’m finding sources of quality, free e-books and online libraries) and have volunteered to speak about it at a conference this fall. I will start volunteering for Project Gutenberg soon. My former XP laptop now runs Linux Mint and does it well.
This is all librarianship. I don’t work as a librarian, I am a librarian.”
Most of you know I worked full time as a high school librarian for fifteen years. One of the first things I learned was to have an extra pad or tampon in my desk – and they’re not for me.
I can’t tell you how many times girls have come into my office asking if I have something they can use for “…you know.” And of course I do, no matter whether they’re a student I get along with or not, and in the moment when I hand that “something” over we’re not a student and a staff member anymore – we’re just two women.
It’s a phenomenon I’ve noticed before, as a college student or in my early twenties, in bathrooms of bars or a club when a perfect stranger’s hand sticks into my stall door from under the divider and says, “Hey, sorry. But do you have… something?” And again at the changing of hands, she’s not a stranger even if I never see her face. We’re just two women.
So why even among women do we struggle to say the word “pad” or “tampon?” Why do we slide them inside our sleeve or crush them in our fists as we walk to the bathroom so that no one will know that we’re menstruating? The fact that we shed our uterine lining means that we’re able to continue the human race, grow the next generation inside our bodies. But we’ve been taught that it’s bad, scary, shameful, dirty, or even gross.
In Biblical times a menstruating woman was considered unclean, and as a culture we haven’t come terribly far. In March of 2015, poet and artist Rupi Kaur posted a photo on her Instagram account of herself, curled up in bed, having bled through her pants. The photo was promptly flagged by users as offensive, and quickly removed from Instagram for violating community standards. Anyone who is familiar with Instagram knows you don’t have to wander far or scroll long to find any variety of explicit photos. Yet a fully clothed woman with a spot of blood on her pants caused an uproar.
Menstruation is not always met with disgust, but sometimes simple ignorance is to blame. I remember being in grade school and hearing about an older girl that had to be sent home early because she got her period in choir. The story had made some rounds by the time it reached the fifth graders, so the way we heard it, the girl had covered a chair in blood, gone home and had her period seven more times. They didn’t know if she was going to make it.
That one can be chalked up to the innocence of childhood, but I’ve had some dumbfounding experiences with adult males that can’t be so easily excused. When my boyfriend of nine years and I combined households, he soon learned that his sheets were our sheets. And our sheets have bloodstains. On all accounts he is a wonderful, kind, lovely person, who nicely asked me if I could possibly “wear something to bed to stop that from happening.”
To which I explained. “Honey, I am. You should see what would happen if I didn’t.” “Really?” he asked. “It’s like that?” “Yeah, honey. It’s like that.”
This came from a man in his late thirties who grew up with three older sisters. Even in a household of women, menstruation remained a mystery.
A few years ago a well-meaning man advised me not to venture into my garden during my time of the month, because it would make the pickles wilt. I told him that might not be the best gardening advice I’d ever heard but it was certainly a wonderful metaphor.
In 1892 famed axe-killer Lizzie Borden murdered her father and step-mother, yet when questioned about a spot of blood on her hemline by the police, she informed them it was from a “flea bite,” a euphemism at the time for menstrual blood. The officers promptly dropped that line of questioning, too mortified to continue. Lizzie was exonerated for lack of evidence.
Today we call that “getting out of gym class.”
As a YA author I’m often asked if I find myself restrained by the parameters of writing for teens, in terms of censorship. If you’ve read anything I’ve written then you’re probably aware the answer is “not really,” and – as I keep telling everyone – if I haven’t shocked you yet, just wait for the next one.
However, in an earlier draft of my debut NOT A DROP TO DRINK there was a mention of how my main character, Lynn, and her mother, handled menstruation in the post-apocalypse. Early readers asked me if that was really necessary as some might find it offensive. Being a new writer who only wanted to please, I chose to remove it. Looking back, I question how a book that opens with a nine year old shooting someone in the head in defense of her water source crossed the line by mentioning menstruation.
So where do we go from here? If red tents, axe-murders and wilted pickles litter the past what can we do in the present? Start by saying “pad” or “tampon” out loud, not asking for “something” because “you know.” Don’t be afraid to say menstruation, it’s not a dirty word. Don’t be ashamed to go into the store just to get a box of pads or tampons, because guys make that trip for condoms without thinking twice. Talk to your daughters openly about it, and – talk to your sons, too, so that their girlfriend doesn’t look at them like they’re stupid when they’re almost forty.
Because ‘bartender’ is not the only cool job out there. This list does not include every possible career, but it has plenty to choose from if you’re in need of fresh ideas. Below you will find Part 2 (E-H) because this list will get looong. Enjoy! Like/Reblog if this helps! Part 1 — Part 2 — Part 3 — Part 4 — Part 5
Words are our favorite right?! So as an American Indian High School Librarian I want to share my favorite with you: “Much money and many precious lives would have been saved if you had fought my people with Books instead of Power ” -Sarah Winnemucca Hopkins, Paiute American Indian Activist
I love being a librarian, and I love fashion! I have no particular style, other than, if like it, I will try it on! And of course if it is on sale, even better. This picture is from a day that I hosted with students, it was a Decades Book Club where every month we explored books, music, etc from a particular era… this is my 1950’s rockabilly dress.
Dana Lowery Ramseur, MLIS
Central Cabarrus High School, NC
School Library Media Coordinator
American Indian Education Program Coordinator
I am a high school librarian and library department chair at a college prep K-12 school in southern California. I have recently begun getting tattooed now that I’m in my mid-40s! I have three so far, on my upper arms - a hamsa, a hoopoe bird with my Hebrew name Tzipora (bird) and my latest piece, pictured below. I asked my artist to create a superhero librarian and gave him a few references, including the cover of “This Book is Overdue” and a picture of 1940s comic book hero Mary Marvel. This is the result. I’m happy with her and can’t wait to get more…